Beckett
I dropped onto the bench, sweat still clinging to the back of my neck, the air in the locker room thick with that post-scrimmage mix of noise and adrenaline. My legs burned, my throat was dry, and for one blessed second I thought I might actually get a minute of quiet.
Then Adam flopped down beside me, grin already locked and loaded.
“So, Mason,” he said, bumping my shoulder, “how’s life working PR for Reynolds’ girl?”
I didn’t even look up. “Don’t start.”
Derek leaned in from across the aisle, towel slung around his neck. “Too late. We’re already in the group chat about it.”
I blinked. “There’s a chat?”
Logan, sitting on the lower bench lacing his boots, didn’t even look up. “There’s always a chat.”
The room burst out laughing, the kind of laughter that bounced off metal lockers and made everything sound too loud.
Adam waved his phone like he had evidence. “You’re basically her sidekick now, man. Photos, fundraisers, the whole thing. It’s cute.”
My jaw tightened. I could feel the muscle jump under my skin. “It’s not like that.”
Adam arched an eyebrow. “Then why’s she always calling you instead of golden boy?”
Derek smirked. “Because golden boy’s too busy chasing scouts.”
The laughter picked up again, but it hit me sideways — something hot and restless tightening behind my ribs. I slammed my locker shut hard enough to make it echo.
“Drop it,” I said, sharper than I meant to.
That got me a few looks — half-amused, half-warning. The kind guys gave when they realized they’d hit something raw but weren’t sure if they wanted to keep poking.
Adam lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Mason. We’re just saying — for someone who claims to hate PR work, you sure spend a lot of time doing it.”
I stared at the dent in the locker door instead of his face. “I’m just helping out. I was forced to, remember?"
Logan’s voice cut through, calm but edged with something that sounded like curiosity. “You don’t help people, Mason. You show up, do your job, and leave. This one’s different.”
He wasn’t wrong, and that pissed me off even more.
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “someone’s gotta keep things from falling apart.”
Adam snorted. “Sure. Just make sure Reynolds doesn’t find out you’re fixing his girlfriend’s problems for him.”
That one hit lower than it should’ve. I shoved past them, grabbing my bag. “I said drop it.”
The laughter faded behind me, replaced by a chorus of whistles and muttered “touchy”.
Out in the hall, the noise dulled, leaving only the hum of the vending machine and the echo of my own pulse.
They thought it was a joke — just locker-room talk, teammates giving me grief. But it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t even about Kyle.
It was about the way she looked at me sometimes — calm, steady, like she saw through the noise. And the way that look made me forget I wasn’t supposed to care.
“C’mon, Mason,” Adam said, leaning back on the bench, grin sharp enough to cut. “Just admit it. You’ve got a soft spot for the boss lady.”
Something in me snapped. “I said drop it!”
My voice came out louder than I meant, echoing off the tile walls and cutting clean through the locker room noise. For a second, even the showers went quiet.
Every head turned. A few eyebrows raised. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy, until Derek cleared his throat and mumbled something about me needing more carbs.
I shoved up from the bench, grabbing my gear bag. The movement felt too sharp, too loud — the kind you make when you need to move before you explode.
The look on my face must’ve said enough, because nobody tried to stop me.
Adam started to say something — probably another joke to smooth things over — but I didn’t give him the chance. The door slammed behind me, hard enough to rattle the frame.
Out in the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzed. I could still feel their laughter bouncing around in my head, grating under my skin.
They didn’t get it.
They thought this was about a crush — about some cliché story where the angry striker falls for the do-gooder director.
It wasn’t like that. Not even close.
They didn’t know what it meant to actually show up for someone. To see someone drowning in responsibility and decide — without being asked — that you weren’t going to let them sink.
They didn’t know what it was like to look at a person who carried too much on their shoulders and think, I’ve been there. I know that weight.
They didn’t understand what it felt like to want to protect someone not because they were weak, but because you knew how it felt to be left holding everything alone.
I gripped the strap of my bag tighter, jaw clenched.
Ellery didn’t need saving. She wasn’t some fragile charity case. She was tougher than half the guys on this roster — smart, focused, relentless. But she was human, too. You could see it in the quiet moments, in the way she stayed late, in the way her smile didn’t always reach her eyes.
That was what got to me.
Not the way she looked — though, yeah, that didn’t exactly make things easier — but the way she showed up. The way she didn’t quit, even when the world gave her every reason to.
That kind of thing stuck with you.
I reached the exit, pushing through the door into the cool morning air. The sky was still pale, the city barely waking up. I took a breath, trying to burn off the leftover anger, but it didn’t go anywhere.
Because the truth was, they were right — just not in the way they thought.
Yeah, I had a soft spot.
Just not the kind you could joke about.
I was almost out the door when I heard it—my name, sharp and careless, bouncing off the walls like a punch I didn’t see coming.
Kyle’s voice.
“What’s Mason's problem?”
I stopped just out of sight, hand still on the doorframe, pulse spiking so fast I could feel it in my jaw.
Adam’s answer came a second later, light and unbothered. “Touchy subject. We were just messing around about Ellery.”
The pause that followed was small, but it was enough.
Then Kyle laughed — that easy, practiced sound that always made cameras love him and teammates forgive him. “Seriously? Beckett and Ellery? That’s funny.”
The laughter hit me harder than the words.
No one else said anything. Even Adam went quiet. I could picture the look on his face — that oh, shit expression he got when he realized someone had crossed a line.
“No offense,” he went on, still half-laughing, “but she’s not really his type. He usually goes for… you know. Flashier.”
My grip on the doorframe tightened until my knuckles cracked.
Flashier.
Girls who wore less clothing, who slept around on the first date. That was what that meant.
I could feel the blood pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Not my type?
You don’t even see her. You don’t know the difference between the woman who runs herself into the ground to keep kids in cleats and the one you kiss on autopilot before running off to your next headline.
You don’t get to define her like that.
I took a breath, slow and careful, because if I didn’t, I was going to walk back in there and say something I couldn’t take back.
The smart move was to leave. Let it roll off. Pretend it didn’t get under my skin.
But I couldn’t shake it.
Ellery wasn’t some prop in his story — she wasn’t the supportive girlfriend waiting on the sidelines while he chased another round of applause. She was the one building something real, something that mattered, while the rest of us were out here breaking bones and egos.
And yeah, maybe she wasn’t “flashy.” Maybe she didn’t walk into a room and demand attention. She didn’t have to.
When Ellery looked at you — really looked — it made you stand still. Made you want to earn it.
That kind of woman didn’t need to shine loud. She just was.
Kyle never saw it.
That was the problem.
So, instead of leaving I turned around. I headed for the locker room. I stepped back into the doorway before I could talk myself out of it. The room went dead quiet.
Kyle turned first, surprise flickering across his face, then smoothing into that calm, polished expression he wore like armor.
“You got something to say, Reynolds?” I asked.
He didn’t flinch. Kyle Reynolds never flinched — not on the field, not in front of cameras, not when he was wrong. “Just that you’ve been spending a lot of time with my girlfriend.”
I crossed my arms, keeping my tone flat. “Maybe because your girlfriend’s doing more for this town than half this team combined.”
That got a few low murmurs from the benches, the kind that said everyone wished they weren’t in the room for this but also weren’t about to miss it.
Kyle’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t get defensive. I’m not threatened, man. I know she’s got you helping her. It’s… cute.”
My jaw clenched. “Cute?”
He shrugged, casual as ever. “She’s passionate, sure. But you know how Ellery is — gets wrapped up in her projects. She’ll burn herself out if someone doesn’t tell her to slow down.”
That laugh of his — the one that used to charm reporters and sponsors — grated against every nerve I had left.
“Maybe,” I said, my voice dropping, “if you told her that, she wouldn’t have to do everything alone.”
The room went still again.
No one spoke. No one moved. You could hear the hum of the overhead lights and the faint slap of someone’s cleats against the floor in the next hallway over.
Kyle’s smile slipped, just a little. “You don’t know her like I do.”
I stared at him, pulse pounding, every word feeling heavier than it should’ve. “You don’t know her at all.”
The silence that followed was brutal, pressing down on all of us. Even Adam, who never shut up, looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.
Kyle was the first to move. He grabbed his water bottle, stood, and said coolly, “You should watch how you talk to me, Mason."
“Maybe you should watch how you treat her,” I shot back.
He stopped in the doorway, shoulders tense. For a second, I thought he’d say something — maybe swing, maybe just throw another perfectly measured insult. But he didn’t.